’Tis John Paul Jones—my Admiral;
His hair is a glorious red;
And I am the maiden who serves as the mate
To see that the sawdust is spread.
He leans on the rail of the laundry tubs
As the Serapis lifts on our lee;
Our gun crews chant by the carronades
And the powder boys yell in their glee.
For he who stands in Colonial rags,
Is born to the gift of the game—